Restless Nights
by Zoi Balletta
Summary: insomnia (inˈsämnēə) noun habitual sleeplessness; inability to sleep.


Ian couldn't sleep.

His thoughts were racing, bouncing around his head endlessly. There was so much he could have been doing, should have been doing, sleeping would have been a waste of time. He could have gone for a run or to work, he could have made something of himself, but someone - or rather someone - was keeping him tethered to the bed.

A dark haired man shifted beside him, and Ian looked downward to make sure that he hadn't woken him. His boyfriend's skin was pale in the half-light, a milky-white color that threw his light freckles into sharp relief, making Ian want to kiss every inch of him, to memorize those constellations. He would have done so, he would have spent the rest of the night, maybe the rest of his life, simply rolling around this bed with this beautiful man, but it was as if he was frozen in place, barely daring to breath from fear of waking him.

Mickey didn't sleep much anymore. Ian knew it was his fault, he would often wake up the older boy when he came to bed at night and when he got up in the morning, which would almost always lead to Mickey being fucked into the mattress, turning both of them into moaning messes. The older boy was a light sleeper, he startled awake at the slightest noise, his eyes gazing around him in confusion and then giving Ian a look much like a disgruntled kitten. Mickey didn't complain about it much, usually liking to know where Ian was, that he had made it home safe, and Ian couldn't help but marvel at how much Mickey had changed, how much of himself he had given to Ian.

He let himself quietly exhale, studying the face of the sleeping boy, and moved himself gently so that he was laying face to face with him. Even in sleep, Mickey looked so exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and a weary look characteristic of someone three times his age forcing his lips into a permanent scowl. Ian wished he could take it away, wished he could polish off the worry lines and make Mickey whole again, but he couldn't.

Something that Ian found profoundly tragic was that he had never known a Mickey who didn't have scars. He remembered the first time they had fucked, all heat and lust and hormone addled brains. He had been fascinated by the way Mickey had moved, as if he was desperate for the physical contact, as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. He realized now that it must have been so freeing for him, not having to pretend for a little while, to able to be himself.

He remembered looking at the older boy's naked torso and studying the cigarette burns on his shoulder, that crooked scar that traced a white line under his ribs, the way that his eyes seemed incredibly young and as old as the universe at the same time. He took all this in and wondered how other people didn't see this and hear all of it screaming at them that there was something more underneath all those layers of bravado that Mickey had created as walls around him.

He lifted his hand carefully, running his fingers along that now familiar scar. A knife. Mickey had told him that when Ian had finally built up the courage to ask where he had gotten it. He didn't offer more information and Ian didn't ask again, but his imagination ran rampant with it. He created a thousand scenarios in his mind's eye, each one less probable than the last. Did Mickey piss of the wrong person? Was it some fucked up junkie? Was he in some crazy outsiders-style rumble? No matter how many theories he came up with, he had a strange certainty about where the mark really came from.

It was the little things that clued him in. The way Mickey seemed almost embarrassed by that scar in particular, how he would frown at Ian when he traced it lightly with the tips of his fingers. This was Terry's work. Terry had done this, Terry had broken Mickey to the point of no return, so that all Ian could to was glue the pieces of him back together haphazardly, leaving him cracked. Terry had been the one to fuck everything up, to ruin any chance any of them had ever had of being normal. To him, Terry was the source of all evil. If it wasn't for Terry, everything would have been fine.

He almost believed that sometimes, and he was fairly certain that he'd never get over the what if's that plagued his every waking moment. What if he had never enlisted? What if Mickey hadn't gotten married? What if Terry had never walked in on them? He played a thousand sequences of events through his head, imagining all the ways that things could have been alright, but somewhere deep down he knew that this couldn't be fixed.

They were both on the wrong side of sane. They were both broken before they even met. They were both beyond repair. So maybe their only option left was to try to fit themselves together, to make something new out of the pieces that were still usable, and leave what was useless behind. Sometimes though, Ian would wonder if he was the right person for Mickey.

Mickey deserved someone who was good for him, and Ian used to be so sure that it was him, back when he was young and naive, but now his confidence wavered. Mickey should have someone who could deal with his problems in a way that Ian wasn't capable of, someone who didn't lie and cheat and go batshit at the drop of a dime. He always tried to do what was best, tried to be the person that he used to be, that he wished he still was, but he was starting to see that he usually did more bad than good.

"You're still awake?" A sleep addled voice asked, and Ian was startled out of his thoughts. Mickey's eyes were open, bleary with sleep, but still so incredibly blue that Ian momentarily lost himself in them.

Mickey ran his hand absently along Ian's arm. "Hey, you okay?" He asked, his brow creasing with worry.

Ian nodded, planting a chaste kiss on his boyfriend's forehead. "Yeah. Yeah I'm fine."

Mickey scooted closer to Ian, leaning his head into the younger boy's chest and wrapping an arm loosely around his shoulders. "Sleep" He mumbled into Ian's skin, and Ian felt his eyes get inexplicably wet.

He grabbed at Mickey, clutching his shoulders so that he was pulled tightly against the larger man's chest. Ian sniffed quietly, trying to rid himself of the heavy feeling that had just washed over him, yanking at his heart and making him want to sob, to just let it all go for a moment and bawl.

He hid his face in Mickey's inky black hair, and Mickey mumbled something he couldn't hear. He felt a familiar calloused hand rub gently at his back while another carded through his hair. He sniffed again, refusing to let himself cry. and held onto Mickey as if he was his lifeline, as if he were a ship at sea and Mickey was the only think anchoring him into place, steady and strong in all the ways that Ian couldn't be.

The older boy spoke quietly, saying nonsense words. "I gotcha. you're okay. You'll be okay." Whispering a continuous stream of reassurances, seeming to understand exactly what was going through Ian's mind at the moment, even if he was sure that Mickey couldn't possibly understand because this wasn't the type of thing that you could comprehend if it wasn't happening to you.

Ian focused on Mickey's voice, the feel of his hand rubbing tiny circles on his shoulder blades, the simple show of affection filling him with emotion, making him want to laugh and cry at the same time. This was only for him, he knew that, he didn't need Mickey to tell him that he loved him or say any of the other shit that he would surely refer to as 'too gay.' It seemed ridiculous to him now, that he could have ever doubted that Mickey had felt the same way he had all along.

He loved Mickey, he knew that with a certainty that he had never had before he had met the older boy. A sureness that seemed to be the only steady thing in his life now. He loved Mickey. Maybe he was insane, maybe he would turn out to be just like his mother, maybe he would become the very thing that he was most afraid of, but he loved Mickey, and for now that was enough.

His brain was still as awake as it had been before, still giving him that fake sense of urgency, but he ignored it, and listened to the even voice of the boy that had long since become his home, concentrating solely on the soothing sound and letting it drown out the endless psychosis of his own mind. Ian felt his breathing even out, his thoughts slow down slightly, and a fatigue overtook him.

He closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to fall into the merciful bliss of unconsciousness.


End file.
